Your leaking thatched hut during the restoration of a pre-Enlightenment state.


Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").


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Like my brownhouse:
   my peculiar sociopathic urge to chronicle things
Thursday, January 2 1997
Awaking today was even more ridiculous than doing so yesterday. I was on the streets of Charlottesville by 5am. This time not even Lucky Seven was open (normally it is open 24 hours a day, but now special holiday hours are in effect). I had a plastic ketchup bottle containing a slightly diluted concoction of gin and vermouth, and this I sipped as I walked.

I worked at my musings at Cocke Hall again. And at a little past 8am, I went to the Rising Sun Bakery to resume work on the sign, which is making good if slow progress.

Jen Fariello was being noticeably colder to me. This was the result of my musing the other day that she had a reputation for being somewhat of a bitch. This musing thing is going to be hard to do when dealing with someone like her who reads the musings within a day of their creation. With Jessika, there was more of a lag between when I wrote something and when she read it. So being cold to me (something Jessika never did much of anyway) had less relevance as a form of punishment. (Though even then the musings seemed to have a profound effect on our relationship.) This is a classic example of the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle. The more closely I observe my life (in public, since I'm broadcasting the story of my life) the more I change the story's plot.

Time inevitably heals most dicord between rational people, and so it was with Jen when she came by later in the afternoon. We ended up driving around together in her car on various errands. She went to a glass shop on East High Street to get some panes of both mirror and glass. Then we got me a seven layer burrito at Taco Bell and some hardware at Roses's on Pantop's. One of the things purchased at Rose's was polyurethane spray for the bakery sign. I was feeling tired from having been awake so long, but then I noticed that I'd apparently lost a Comet paycheck from a couple weeks ago. When Jen let me off at my house, paramount among my concerns was to find this missing paycheck.

I never did. After going through all my stuff at home and at Comet I gave up. I felt better when I sent Ira, the guy who handles Comet's money stuff, a request for a stop payment and another check. The matter had resolved as much as it could. I have to do something about this tendency I've had of late to lose things. I think it is related to the fact that I have so many places that I go between, often while DRUNK.

Armed with a twelve of Beast Ice, I stopped by Theresa and Persad's place in the middle of a fight. Cecelia the Brazilian Girl (dressed in an exquisite long dark blue Victorian dress and veiled black hat) was the only other person there. Others arrived, some making substantially less sense than me.

Theresa wanted a massive copy of the Glossary I'd printed out for her at Cocke Hall (I'd printed it directly off the Web with Netscape). When she, I and Cecelia went to get it, Persad got really pissed off. The girls, pursued by Persad, fled into the crash pad in Wertland Apartments and I went home to be stoned and listen to Guided By Voices. I found myself paying careful attention to changes in timing.

John was entertaining a lady friend, and I occasionally chatted with them breathlessly from my intoxication.

I went to the awful crash pad in Wertland Apartments with the Glossary print outs, and Theresa set about to collating them for me. This was not an easy or straightforward process. I was content to smoke more pot and be a loud and obnoxious presence, for example playing guitar over some Siouxie and the Banchees (a suitably goth pick by Vanna the Increasingly Gothic Punk Rock Girl). Meanwhile Cecelia the Brazilian Girl complained about the part in the Glossary where it says she likes Sepultura, something she apparently simulated back in the day as a means of seducing Josh Mustin, whom she now despises. It's part of the record now, hah!

There were some pretty marginal looking types at the crash pad in addition to such staples as Torrin, Morgan Anarchy, and Josh Smith. Some of the others (boys) there looked and sounded like rednecks, though they had some alternative trappings such as eyebrow rings.

When things became boring, I emerged from Wertland to find, across the street, Jen Fariello just getting back from something in her car. I decided to hang out with her as a more interesting and less garish alternative to youth dissolution. I salvaged the last of my beers for this purpose.

Let's see, along with housemate Amy, we watched that damn new-fangled medical television show called ER. It features very long video takes, you know.

Then Jen and I discussed the musings and my peculiar sociopathic urge to chronicle things. She succeeded in making me feel shitty about what I'd written about her.

Matters resolved quickly though, and we headed to the Bakery after hours to score some higher class beers (which she signed out, I must emphasize). On the way we passed 13th Street where my youthful chums were gathering for an outing in Jesse's truck. Despite the scratches of the December 21st Carter's Mountain Wreck, it is still quite operational.

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